Crown
by DealingDearie
Summary: Loki sits on the throne and realizes that it isn't as rewarding as he thought it would be. Written for Loki Month over on Tumblr (Prompt: Your Favorite Loki).


Gungnir was cool in his grip, icy metal pressed tightly, possessively, to his palm as he sat on the throne of Asgard. He could squint and gaze, with difficulty, out the windows lining the throne room, placed at the far sides and too far away to truly appreciate. He could catch the sunlight glinting off of the golden rooftops, could trace the angles and watch the shapes, could, perhaps, admire Asgard as Odin might once have admired it, but he remained idle, whiling away his time by inspecting the delicate lines crawling across the staff's decorative top, green eyes following the runes and committing them to memory.

He wondered how many kings had held the weapon before him, how many hands had caressed the power captured within it, and could still imagine, if he tried hard enough, how the All-Father had kept it upright in his grip, steady and confident, but weary, and grimaced as the desire to rid his mind of such thoughts overcame him in small, pulsing little urges, random reminders that he shouldn't, couldn't, be thinking about the man he'd killed-the man that, once in a lifetime ago, in a memory buried so deeply in his head, he'd called his father.

It was a harsh reality, one Loki had spent the past few years trying to forget, and yet it found its own way to haunt him, even now, even while he was perched upon the throne, even while Thor was away living his own life, even while Frigga was long turned to ashes, even while all of the world accepted his demise without so much as a tear-all except for his brother.

He couldn't keep it away; it was a trailing, ghostly thing, the lasting image of his family and the idea that they still remained so. No matter how hard Loki tried, he couldn't make them strangers, couldn't reverse time or erase his memories, couldn't create the mindset that they were nothing at all to him (Frigga's tears, her hurt, weak smile, would be nothing more than another sad expression on a face he'd never known. Thor's anger, his rage and his anguish, would be just another soul lost to sorrow, just another face in the crowd. Odin's deceit, his lie and the betrayal bright on his face, would be another man at death's door, already worn by time and the burdens of his long life, and Loki wouldn't ever have thought twice about him.).

_Would._

But it could never be, and the memory of Frigga's pain and Thor's grief and Odin's reserved, hopeless acceptance tore at Loki's heart more than anything else, more than the blood spilled across his palms and the countless lies he'd told and all of the people he'd hurt.

On most days, he could handle it, but on others, seclusion was his closest friend and still his constant enemy. It kept him from prying eyes, but allowed his mind more time to process it all, and he desperately wished for something to busy himself with.

Deciding to distract himself, Loki gazed at the windows, squinting at the sunlight as it reflected against the buildings and hurt his eyes, and he looked away, blinking when he saw colored spots in his vision, angered that he couldn't even keep his mind busy with looking at the scenery before him-_as Odin did, and as Thor would have done._

It hurt.

He was young again, suddenly, in a time far behind him and a place now forever altered, running through the halls and basking in the echo of laughter that rang against the walls, turning to smile as Thor, his blond hair flying past him, ran just as fast, harsh footfalls against the stone floor, bright eyes eager and friendly. He was a boy without worries, one that didn't know and one that never should have found out, unburdened and happy.

And then he was in Jotunheim, staring down in horror as the blue of his skin revealed to him a truth he didn't want to pursue, _and still_.

He was crying and yelling at Odin, face red with grief and rage, and then he was breaking down in front of Thor, tears dripping down his cheeks and heart pounding in his chest.

Dangling from Gungnir, it was the most treacherous thing within him, and it ached as he saw the defeat, the blatant acceptance, in Odin's face, and he let his grip loosen.

That was all it took.

The memory of Thor's sorrow haunted him at night, when the moon and stars above were his only companions, and even then, he plotted, and his shoulders felt weighted when he made a deal he wasn't entirely sure he could keep.

And then the blood staining his feet grew cold against his skin, and he felt the empty places where Frigga might have been standing, saw the spots that were filled with her absence, where she might have picked up a book strewn on the floor, wiping the dust from it with an amused smile, where she might have been sitting on the chair's arm, hands folded in her lap as she tried to glean a conversation from him.

Thor never visited, and he hadn't seen Odin for an entire year, but Frigga had remained steadfast and constant, and at times her presence hurt him more than any other's absence.

But now, he longed to hear her voice, yearned to wipe away the tears he'd last seen spilling from her eyes, wanted so badly to erase the pain he'd caused her.

And then it was all over, and he was sitting on the throne with tears in his eyes, the weight of his actions like anvils upon his fragile shoulders, and for all the years Loki had spent convincing himself otherwise, the throne had never seemed less appealing.

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